


Gotta Be So Cold ((DISCONTINUED))

by Monochromatic (orphan_account)



Category: Britain's Got Talent RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dark, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Gen, Heavy Angst, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Press and Tabloids, Silence - Freeform, Slow Build, Slow To Update, idk anymore, sorry - Freeform, what do I tag???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-07-25 04:58:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16190579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Monochromatic
Summary: Simon Cowell is a very successful entertainment mogul.At the age of 37, he already has an interesting reputation: brutal, cold and honest,  making someone highly respected yet hated.David Walliams has a differently similar story.A divorcee of 33, he's a comedian with a dark side, venturing out in the form of sharp wit and occasionally scandalous comments, which usually helps scare haters off - including a six foot frame and a swimmer's muscles - and enables him to wreck hell upon all in a hysterical way, clearing his path to fame.But what will happen when these two forces of human darkness meet?What will happen when they realise that they know each other's weaknesses?And, most importantly, what will the consequences be?Of course, it all starts with a one night stand...





	1. Author's Note

**Author's Note:**

> *nervous shuffling*  
> *Whispers* this ship is my guilty pleasure...shhh...don't tell anyone on my main account...  
> enjoy, I suppose.  
> this fic is also up on wattpad, but I have the hell up because I hate that site.

DISCLAIMER:

I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THE CHARACTERS INVOLVED!

Please respect them, David had - has - real problems, and Simon, is well, Simon.

This may be incredibly slow going, and is gonna be unedited because I'm a savvy, lonely bitch.

CONFESSIONS:

I changed their ages, and BGT exists but David isn't the fourth judge. no kids, not wives (well David's a divorced, but still) because that is kinda tough to maneuver around

WARNINGS:

mature themes, language, tonns of britishisms (for y'all americans out there) and possible smut :)

Enjoy~

-21 out


	2. Leave Behind Your Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lowercase intended! don't leave because of it  
> ...  
> hope you like

 

_Tick_

_Tock_

_Tick_

_Tock_

_Tick_

_Tock_

 

_the ward is silent, save for the clock._

_the heart monitor is silent. it gave one last beep and that was it._

_silence._

 

_Tick_

_Tock_

_Tick_

_Tock_

_Tick_

_Tock_

 

_all is silent apart from the clock on the wall of the bleached, deathly white ward._

_save for one set of quiet breathing instead of two._

_save for one beating heart instead of two._

_save for one pair of open eyes instead of two._

_save for one life instead of two._

 

_save for only simon instead of two._

 

_Tick_

_Tock_

_Tick_

_Tock_

_Tick_

_Tock_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from Imagine Dragons' amazing Natural! (this fic was basically inspired by that song)  
> stick around for the next part!  
> -21 out


	3. Rather Be the Hunter Than the Prey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...  
>  stick around and enjoy the darkness my kids.  
> :)

_"Oh look who it is lads! It's our favourite fag, David! How are ya, Walliams? Or should I say...Whale-iams?"_

_Laughter._

_A blow._

_A smacking sound._

_A crunch._

_Pain._

_A scream._

_\---_

_"You been fighting again boy? Bloody disappointment. When will you learn to be useful? Learn to behave? When will something pierce that thick skull of yours? Get through all that flab, swimmer-boy? Me and your mother try so hard, and you just throw it out of the window!" Just like one of those bloody fags!"_

_\---_

_"I THOUGHT YOU LOVED ME! I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME, SOMEONE WHO ACTUALLY CARED! TURNS OUT YOU'RE JUST A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING, FAT, GAY, UGLY BASTARD! PERVERT!"_

_A slap._

_Pain._

_Silence. He won't scream, won't show weakness, even if it can't get worse._

_But it can._

_"That's it," the words are spat out like poison "We're over."_

 

**_over._ **

_**over.** _

_**over.** _

 

_**over.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed, and don't forget to comment...  
> -21 out


	4. Just Another Product of Today (Living Your Life Cutthroat)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...hi? anyone?  
>  sorry for short chapters, it's just my style and well yeah.

Simon sighs.

Same old thing. Again. And again. And again. And again.

Half - no, nearly all - these people, who come on this talent show because they think they're good, are absolutely hopeless. Utterly useless. Bloody reprobates. It's actually making him feel slightly depressed, even if the money he gets to sit in this chair and tell them the truth (also known as "torture" by everyone else) per week could pay a normal family's mortgage for about 50 years with enough left over to feed them as well. He doesn't know what to do with it, though. A private chauffeur is already employed, maybe a bodyguard against the screaming, half blood-thirsty, half fangirling crowd? A second pass to the club just in case he looses the first one? A sex slave? Private jet? - oh, wait, he already has one. 

Summary: life is boring for Simon Cowell.

Until he puts his mask on and disappears into the seething, pulsing, writhing mass of bodies, coloured crazy in the flashing lights as glinting eyes stare out at him, predatory, from under glittering, feathered contraptions strapped to wild, tangled heads, the subtle, sweet, rotting stench of champagne, cocaine and gasoline completely permeating the whole place.

Meanwhile, the girls in front have just finished singing, and, well, he doesn't really know what to say apart from "no".

He always says that. It's kind of boring now. Maybe he would go into the comedy industry. Apparently Little Britain wanted someone to ridicule. Besides, getting mocked by a lean, six-foot (qualities very much admired by the entertainment mogul) man who quite obviously belongs under the rainbow flag and his short, pasty colleague is much more fun than watching the literal shit-show in front of him.

But it's the 21st century and society demands he stay where he is to purge it of ear-torturing wannabes wanting to get into the music industry.

So unfortunately, it's the people that are actually winning, not Simon Cowell, as his mum would say.

_Stop, no. She's dead._

He isn't really paying any attention, not to Amanda and Alesha twittering to his right, not to Stephen making some more crap jokes, nor to Ant and Dec poking their heads out onto the stage and grinning stupidly at everyone to cheers and whistles.

Boring.

 

* * *

 David hates interviews.

Hates them for multiple reasons:

1\. He has to be nice, and he's only allowed one comment on the interviewers general appearance.

2\. Hates them because he has to plaster a fake smile on his face and tell the world the thousandth time that no, he didn't want a divorce, and yes, thank you, he's coping just fine.

 

 _Oh yeah David,_   _ignore the 5 shots of vodka you drank yesterday night. And the fact that your house is a mess. And the fact that you are a mess._

 

3\. Hates them because the bloody interviewers are actually torturers, pulling every single answer out of him like his organs, then selling them.

4\. Hates them because they're sadistic.

5\. Hates them because yes, he does like being in a duo with Matt Lucas, no, he isn't the most funny one, and yes, Ant and Dec did crash on the set, and yes, they are his friends.

Well, friends in the sense of "people I don't currently hate".

All of the above are the reasons why the cameraman is telling him that he looks too tense, ignoring the way the comedian being photographed jumps every time the gum in his mouth pops - David has made it clear, publicly, that he hates gum, hasn't he? Wait, not everyone knows who he is - , and why he tenses his jaw a bit more when a tinkling female voice floats in, telling him that they'll be live in five minutes.

Yipee.

It's fascinating, really, how David loves to be in the limelight but hates it so much at the same time. It's a vicious cycle, really.

_All your fault._

He barely has time to send the gum-chewing cameraman another glare before he's being ushered on, still blinking from the bright flashes and thoroughly irritated. If this goes on for much longer, he might start plotting how to kill everyone.

Anger is the easiest go-to.

_Blame everybody but me, huh? Nice and easy. Very humane, Walliams._

He's had enough blame in his life. He deserves a break.

_Not really. Ever wonder why your wife left you, you bloody selfish git?_

The interviewer perches across from him, face 99% plastic, emotions too. Sharp red nails to tear him open, pen and paper to observe specimen, smile to extract.

He kinda wishes that he had just drunk the whole bottle of wine and knocked himself out.

_Selfish selfish selfish~_

 

"So, David...How are you today?"

* * *

 He may or may not have insulted the lady in front of the one and only British public. But does stating the truth count as an insult? Telling her that she doesn't know anything apart from the amount of plastic on her face? 

Probably a bad idea, but they love him anyway.

_Not really. It's Matt they like, not you._

The Sun is probably going to slam him. The Mirror, too. He already knows what they're going to say:  _David Walliams - Comedian and Misogynist?_

Fun fun fun.

And after that, guess what, more interviews! And ooh look, some more after that! Such amusement in store.

More short-term, he's going to go and get wasted while Ant and Dec will turn up at his house, wait, leave a note, he'll come back, feel guilty, get wasted again and the same will happen.

It's like David's life is a record, pre-made, out of his control and on a continuous, awful loop.

_Not like you don't deserve it._

 

At least he can still get wasted. Get laid if he's particularly lucky.

 

Sounds like a plan.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...hope you enjoyed.  
>  kudos and comments appreciated :)


	5. Deep Inside Me (I'm Fading to Black)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY HERE GOES (no-one reads this, why am I even bothering with a continuation????)  
> just some notes: I have only been to the West End during the day, and although I have actually passed through its outskirts on my way back to King's Cross Station I don't actaully know what it's like, so I'm basing this on a friend's experience - please tell me if there is anything wrong.  
> The club I'm writing about has not been proven to exist, BUT it might, because there definitely will be some fancy ones in that area, and I have never been to one...  
> Hope you enjoy

**contains vaguely explicit scenes, mentions of drugs, alcohol. this whole chapter is set in a club, in case you haven't noticed. you have been warned.**

The streets of West End are packed with coquettish theatre-goers, all dressed up like dolls. Covent Garden is staging some kind of opera, and that does little to clear the heavily-perfumed masses. The air is a wall of sound and cheap scents, the women tittering while their partners act formal and aristocratic in their suits and gloves. No-one pays attention to a man with a venetian mask weaving his way through the crowd. They either don't notice him, or assume he's an incredibly late actor.  Not far from the truth, really. They just incorrectly assumed the innocence of his nightly occupation, and his apparent tardiness was an excuse for the illicit direction he was headed in.

For Simon Cowell was indeed an actor, a mere pretender in a seething coil of people with one goal, a one-track mind that chants only the hedonistic rawness of the body.

More importantly, he was an actor for himself, hypocritic to his soul.

He wants to forget, at least for one night, why he has stooped so low.

Ignore the way his insides twist and shred, rotting with the sickening dampness of churning despair, swallowed to spare him the shame of baring it, left to fester inside.

Drown it, scorch it out of his system with the liquid fire, awaken the primeval and lose his sense of self, humanity, to forget the price of emotions.

Everything comes with a price, even this.

He's got money to stave them off, but even that will soon run out.

What then?

 

He finds that he doesn't care.

* * *

 

It's like entering Hell every time he picks his way down velvet steps, red lights illuminating everything red red red, like a slowly decaying cover of a poorly-made parody of a vein carrying the blood cells in dire need of oxygen, of life source, to the thumping beat of the music, the heart that controls everything, the speed, the rhythm, the danger.

The sights are familiar, almost welcoming. Same people, same lights, same masks.

He likes to look for new ones though. Show them around, tell them what this place truely is once they're wasted enough. Tell them to never ever come back if they value themselves.

It's rare that that happens, though. The never coming back, that is. In this den, Simon found out what drugs really are. The club itself is one, its hallucinogenic lights, spectres instead of humans, flitting, only real when you reach out for them.

Ironic, really.

* * *

 

He sees  _him_ immediately.

The one that's been coming here for about a month now, sitting quietly in the corner with his own set of painkillers. Simon can feel his despair through the bitter anger in the way he downs the shots in front of him, the dead eyes that scan the room from under silver paint after several doses.

He's slightly surprised that the stranger is completely unnoticed by the other...things. They're not people anymore, but still. The man is obviously attractive, tall even when seated, legs stretched out before nervously tucked under, long fingers tapping agitatedly, crisp shirt remaining that way even when his soul has been sucked out, because that's what drugs do. Simon has never really wanted to approach, never wanted to intensify this man's guilt, felt a strange sense of empathy as the stranger tries to find a cure in an empty shot glass slumped alone and avoiding the equally dead gazes of everyone else.

But today.

Today is different. Simon's not sure how he feels about that realisation.

 Today - or rather tonight - the stranger's gaze locks with his.

Hazel eyes burn into his with an indifference that only comes with being sober and the knowledge of impending doom that one can't stop, with a stubborness that is collapsing on the inside. Eyes that Simon knows he'll recognise anywhere from now on. Eyes that have imprinted themselves into his very core. Eyes that sceam  _come here!_ and  _go away!._ Eyes that tell tales and eyes that keep secrets. Eyes that command his every cell to take the first step towards them.

He does what they ask of him.

The eyes narrow.

He takes another step forward, feeling like a puppet on a string.

The eyes brand him with their fire.

He's sitting across from them, and they're challenging him to do something, completely undeterred by the grinding bodies around them.

Lips twitch into a smile, a feral smirk that reads no submission

Long fingers dance across the side of his face.

A silky bass, a purr, rolls across his ears.

_"I hear they have a back room here."_

The eyes spark dangerously as Simon curls his own hand around the stranger's, dragging him away.

That's all he remembers.

The rest is snapshots, disjointed sensations.

The cold wall under his palms. The skin under his teeth as the animal side comes out, feasting on helpless prey with eyes that promise vengeance. The lean muscles under his fingertips. The feeling of  _hotwettight_ and the arch in the stranger's back, eyes reading submission and triumph at the same time as their bodies fall apart.

The eyes.

* * *

 

That man at the club. His stance, proud and head-strong on the outside, eyes broken.

 They connect David to that stranger, a bond he can't explain, a string that was really, if he dug deep enough, was the subconscious pull towards that club.

But now. That bond is stretched taut, pulling painfully at his heart.

He will find that stranger.

At any cost.

* * *

 

David is completely and utterly drained, and the last thing he wants to see when he gets home much, much earlier than usual and with a surprisingly clear head is the sight of Ant and Dec tangled together, on his sofa, fast asleep and half-naked.

He was obviously not the only one who got lucky tonight, he notices as he tiptoes round them. The jealousy at their new-found (new? he questions) is non-existent and he can't help a smile as he watches Dec curl into the taller Geordie when he throws a blanket snagged off the armchair, a plume of brown, coarse dog hair - on that note, where is Bert? - rising up over their sleeping forms.

He doesn't actually own any cleaner ones, though, he realises as he slips, clean from the shower, next to the found Bert under his own covers. Because they're his, and anything to do with him will end up rotting and black on the inside.

 

Just like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS SHIT IS UNEDITED AND UNBETA'D. MISTAKES ARE MINE, AND THERE ARE PROBABLY A LOT OF THEM BECAUSE I'M SHORT ON BLOODY TIME.  
> thank you.  
> hope you like that enough to stick around...who am I kidding?  
> -Mono out

**Author's Note:**

> woo!


End file.
